


Under the Spotlight

by Stefne990



Category: Gotham (TV), oswald cobblepot - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rock and Roll, Self-Harm, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stefne990/pseuds/Stefne990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald Cobblepot has just become the new owner of Fish Mooney's club, but things aren't going well. So, Butch suggests finding new entertainment to bring in the crowds. The club becomes an overnight success! But Oswald never could've predicted how involved he would be in one singer's life...<br/>Originally posted on FF under the same name</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knick Knacks

Trigger warning: rated M for domestic abuse and violence, graphic violence, sexual content and self harm.

Taking place after season 1, episode 17, The Red Hood

* * *

The hot water darkened slowly in the teacup, the teabag bobbing along the edge. Oswald twirled its string between his fingers thoughtfully, an anxious pit rising in his stomach. Although it was still early morning, the emptiness of his club only fueled his anxiety. The tip of his shoe tapped the wall of the bar rhythmically, waiting for his tea.

It had been weeks since Don Falcone had given Fish Mooney's club to him. He had been unbelievably grateful to his Don to trust him enough for the job and he had even been a little excited for the change in scenery. But business was not booming. Business was in a rapid tailspin of disaster.

He dunked the teabag in the water, up and down, up and down.

The comedian that was supposed to begin performing twenty minutes ago never showed and Oswald didn't have the energy to care. So, he stared at the empty stage, sparkling from the neon blue umbrella against the back wall. A naked microphone stand stood at the front, an empty chair seated behind it. The tables were aglow with small, dim lanterns at their center, and were just as empty. Even his mother hadn't come by to visit in days.

The front door opened, blaring morning light that swallowed the entranceway. Oswald perked up. Finally, a patron was here! But the happiness burst when he saw who it was.

"Morning," Butch offered, shouldering off his wool coat and slipping off his gloves. His nose and ears were pink from the harsh wind's autumn bite. When he noticed Oswald's half-hearted wave of his hand in greeting, he cautiously asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened, that's the problem," Oswald sighed, testing a sip of his drink. He'd wait another minute for it to soak. "I thought you were to help me with his place."

"We just got the booze back. Success isn't going to happen overnight." Butch patted him on the shoulder. The gesture left a soft throb in Oswald's back.

"Then what do you propose we do?" The Penguin's icy eyes pierced through the thug as he walked around the bar and poured himself a drink. "Clearly my ideas have no lasting positive impression."

Butch took a sip and, without hesitation, said, "We need better entertainment. If the entertainment is wrong, then people have no reason to come." He eyed the deserted stage. He had hated most of the people Oswald had hired, especially the ventriloquist. The puppet's bulging, ever-staring eyes still gave him shivers. He could kill a man with no problem but puppets… A quiver ran up his spine.

Oswald took another testing sip of his drink. Maybe the tea had just gone bad. He sighed and accepted the off taste for what it was. "Alright, new entertainment." He pulled the teabag from the cup and placed it on the cloth napkin next to it. "Any suggestions?" He took a longer sip, grimacing softly.

Butch finished his drink in one lasting gulp. "No more puppets."

Oswald rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, fine."

"I think we should try more musical acts. Maybe some with more," he raised his fist, thrusting it outwards, "more oomph."

"More oomph?" Oswald raised a brow, staring at him with contempt.

"You know, like the kids like these days. Rock 'n roll, electric guitars and bass drums."

Oswald's cheeks slightly puffed to hold back a laugh. "You're not that much older than I am. Why are you acting like you are?"

"All I'm saying is we need more life in this place. It's being killed from the inside out." From Oswald's reaction to his own management, Butch quickly added, "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean." Oswald swallowed down the rest of his tea, placing the bag back inside and the napkin thrown over it all. He wasn't too favorable toward rock and roll, at least not the heavier side of it. It all seemed too unorganized to be considered music. It just sounded like noise. But if Butch, someone who had been in the clubbing scene for almost a decade, thought it was a good idea, he'd be a fool not to at least consider it.

"We can have auditions if it'll make you feel better." Butch rinsed his glass in the sink under the counter and left it to be washed. "I knew a few people that Fish rejected that you may be interested in."

"Auditions would be best," Oswald agreed, then contemplated whether to close the club for the day for it or not. He took another look around and sighed. The place would be empty anyway, may as well as have the advantage of privacy. Maybe he could squeeze in a nap to calm is nerves. "Send out word today. We'll hold them tomorrow afternoon."

* * *

A surprising amount of people filled the main room of the club, both bands and solo artists lugging their instruments at their sides. Oswald and Butch sat at the last table in the back, a list of names in front of them. The stage before them was already equipped with a drumset, electric keyboard, three amplifiers and three mic stands. Oswald sipped from a glass of red wine while Butch stood and addressed the crowd.

"Alright, I'll make this short and sweet," his voice roared over the shushed group. All their eyes were on him, except for a few that stared at Oswald's odd appearance. But the Penguin ignored them. He should've kicked them out for being disrespectful, after all he would be the one employing them, but the situation was too dire for him to care.

"One song per group, no longer than five minutes," Butch continued. "When you finish, please exit the club. If Mr. Cobblepot likes you," he gestured to Oswald, who nodded his head in acknowledgment, "you'll be hearing from us within the next day or so. Thanks for coming and let's start with," Butch picked up the paper and read the first name, sitting down. "The Knick Knacks?" He looked around the room and a group of teenagers sitting near the stage rose from their seats.

Oswald rolled his eyes and took a longer sip from his glass. "We should've established an age limit. They look like they could still be in high school."

"Probably," Butch groaned. "But we need all the help we can get. Who knows? They could be good."

It didn't take long for the band set up their equipment. The first note the band strung was screeching and it echoed off the walls with such force. The singer, who had several piercings on his lips alone, screamed into the microphone, pounding his fist and bouncing around the stage. The lead guitarist strummed his strings so hard one broke within a few seconds, the metal wire swaying in the air.

 _I would love to wrap that around his throat._ Oswald cupped his hands over his ears, scowling at Butch, his eyes wild and flamed. _If you don't stop this madness, I will._

After a few tries, Butch managed to get the band's attention. They stopped and were promptly escorted out, Gabe wrestling the lead singer out the door.

"Let's keep it to a dull roar for the rest of the afternoon, shall we?" Oswald snapped at the crowd, a high pitch ringing buzzing in his ears. He rubbed his temples, a headache threatening to start. He took another sip of wine. He'd need a few bottles if he was going to get through the day.

"Next up, Adam Harrison and Emily Goldsmith," Butch called, scratching The Knick Knacks from the list with vigor.

"The Pink Eyes."

"Heather Fern and the Bushes." Oswald couldn't have rolled his eyes hard enough.

"Jennifer Thomas."

"Birds of a Feather."

Musician after musician performed with only a handful considered to be good enough to perform on his stage. The Penguin drank the last of his fifth glass of wine, his mind rocking on loose hinges. His body was warm and comfortable, and he was so ready for the auditions to be over. Just one more name on the list.

"Last but not least," Butch said, gesturing to the last musician.

The girl sighed, sucking in confidence and stood, brushing out any wrinkles in her black slacks. She checked and rechecked to be sure the sleeves of her navy sweater were down to her palms. She waved and smiled before making her way to the stage, her small heels clicking on the linoleum. Her guitar case banged against her thigh. Her long chocolate hair bounced against her back with every step, the color complimenting her olive skin.

"Hi, my name is Sammy O'Shea," she said quietly into the microphone before setting her guitar case down next to her, unlatching it then lifting the acoustic guitar strap above her head. She checked a few notes, checking and rechecking that it was in tune. "And this is an original piece called One Last Kiss."

Oswald perked up from the first note, her voice was raspy but smooth and controlled. Her fingers danced about the strings, slow and deliberate, plucking each string at precisely the right time. The rhythm was slow, almost torturous as he waited for the next note to vibrate. He hung on her every vowel, every consonant. She was a breath of fresh air. At least compared to most of the others he had watched earlier in the day.

He wanted to kill The Knick Knacks.

Sam's tone wasn't harsh or even rock and roll. And that was what Oswald liked about her most, even if she did happen to fail to follow instructions.

"I thought you said we needed more oomph," Oswald whispered to Butch, not being able to take his eyes off the performer.

"I found her at a bar uptown. She had more oomph then. I don't know why she's playing so soft."

"You _did_ tell her what we were looking for, right?" Oswald asked accusingly, reaching for his glass before realizing it was still empty.

"Of course I did. Even her appearance is much tamer than when I first met her." He tapped the tip of his pen near her name, itching to slash it out. "You want me to stop her?"

Oswald listened to her voice, a gentle high note sending shivers through his scalp. His breath caught in his throat and he felt tears well in the corners of his eyes. "Tell her to come here."

Butch raised a hand and Sam stopped in the middle of a word. He waved her over and she placed her guitar back in its case before walking over.

"You have a very pretty voice," Butch started. "But I'm sorry to say that—"

Oswald nudged Butch with a pointy elbow. "Butch, please, we said that we would get into contact with them at a later date." His voice was calm and polite but his eyes were wide and demanding.

Butch glanced back at the girl and nodded with a strained smile. "We'll let you know."

But Sam didn't move. "Look, I know that when we met," he gestured to Butch. "you initially said that you were looking for something hard rock, right?" An eyebrow raised under her wispy bangs.

Butch nodded again, his forced smile still plastered on.

"But being last has its advantages." Her eyes were now on Oswald and he noticed how dark they were, almost enveloping her pupils. "With all due respect, Mr. Cobblepot, I noticed that you didn't seem to be enjoying yourself."

The bridge of Oswald's nose turned pink.

"My apologies, sir, if I'm incorrect. But I'd like to think I have the ability to read an audience. I'm a versatile artist, I can play many different genres, and I'd be more than happy and honored to be able to work here."

"Great, we'll let you know," Butch interjected, his smile faltering. His pen still tapped.

"Thanks," Sam smiled. She shifted the guitar case to her other hand then headed for the door until the clicking of her heels disappeared outside.

"She's hired," Oswald said, smacking his hands on the table as he stood. His shoe caught on the leg of the chair and he almost toppled over.

"What, because she's pretty?" Butch scoffed, standing as well. "Remember what I told you about oomph."

"You said that she's capable of having oomph so there's the oomph I'm offering. She's also capable of having no oomph and that's more than fine with me. You can pick out whatever other oomph you'd like. "He limped behind the bar and fetched another bottle of wine.

"Oswald, we just restocked, remember? Save some for the flood of patrons we're about to have." Butch chuckled.

Oswald's nose pinked again and he set the bottle back down. "I'm just trying to drown myself before Don Falcone does it for me."

* * *

The following Saturday night was established as the new grand re-reopening of the Iceberg Lounge. Heather Fern and the Bushes headlined that evening on the promise that they'd change their name to something "less ridiculous". Their fans told their friends, who told their friends. Almost every table and booth was full and Oswald couldn't have been happier.

He took a small sip of his champagne and watched the crowd cheer as the band finished their second song. He winced, massaging his right knee. Moist weather always made it ache terribly. The storm outside must've been lingering longer than he expected.

"Am I right, or am I right?" Butch smirked, his hands planted firmly on his hips. His eyes sparkled in the neon lights. He stood next to Oswald, gleaming with delight.

"I don't know how I ever doubted you." Oswald smiled, raising his glass to him. The band began another song and he turned to watch.

Their sound wasn't terribly obnoxious. Oswald even found his foot tapping to the beat from time to time, until he caught himself doing so. But even if the band wasn't completely to his liking, nothing could ruin the wonderful evening. His club was almost full to the brim with happy patrons. They were smiling, lounging, enjoying themselves inside _his_ establishment. It had been all he ever wanted since Don Falcone entrusted him to take Fish's place all those weeks ago. Perhaps life was finally starting to turn around.

He swallowed the last of his champagne with such enthusiasm he nearly choked.

"Another glass, please," he instructed the bartender. He realized his liver had taken a beating within the last week for one reason or another. Tonight was about celebration, surely his body could forgive him.

As the bartender ducked below the counter to find the bottle, a figure caught Oswald's eye, sparkling like stars in the blue lights. He almost didn't recognize her and he turned away in embarrassment when she noticed him staring.

"Hey, Boss!" Sam shouted over the music, waving her guitar case in greeting. She sat near him at the bar, leaving a stool between them. She set her case down at her knees.

Oswald eyed the heavy case. "I'm sorry, but you're not performing tonight. Were you not informed?" He specifically remembered Butch suggested she perform on a slow night, to attract less attention if she failed, in which Oswald responded by biting the inside of his cheek. He kept quiet, reminding himself that Butch had the nightlife experience and he didn't.

Sam flapped out her leather jacket, spraying a thin mist of rain water into the air. "No, I know," she chuckled, swiping her wet bangs to the side. "I figured I'd stop by for a quick visit before my next show to show my support. Hey, Butch." Her smile revealed a dimple forming only on her left cheek.

Butch flashed her a crooked smile.

"Oh, well, thank you." Had Oswald noticed the small scar just under her left eye before? Just a pink sliver of a line down the side of her nose but it shimmered under the lights. "Would you like a drink? My compliments, of course."

"Water, please."

"Come now, you've come to celebrate so please, celebrate." He couldn't hide his proud smile.

"No, I'm sorry, I can't," Sam laughed. "I never drink before a show. It dries out my throat."

Suddenly his champagne didn't seem as appetizing, but he took a sip anyway. It was his night to shine, his time to be proud. Then she waltzed in and refused his hospitality, refused to join in the celebration. "Water, then," he snapped at the bartender, who flinched.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Sam raised a hand, dismissing her order. "It's not a big deal." Her dark eyes pierced daggers at Oswald, waiting for an explanation, but he only took another sip from his glass, keeping her gaze.

"I hope with your next visit you'll be more enthused to join in the festivities," he said with a cock of his head. A heated smirk rested on his lips. "I will see you Monday night."

Sam scoffed and rolled her eyes, escalating Oswald's annoyance. But she stepped down from her stool, collecting her case and leaving without another word, slamming the door against the wall as she flung it open.

Oswald turned his attention back to the stage, his glass firm in his grip, but noticed Butch looking at him. "Can I help you?"

"You're not the greatest with the ladies, are you?" Butch asked, watching the main entrance swing closed.

Oswald's eyes widened, both surprised and disgusted by his question. His cheeks flushed crimson. "I beg your pardon? That's extremely inappropriate."

"I'll put it to you simply." Butch leaned against the bar and gestured to the full tables. "If we can keep this up, we've got a good thing here. The Iceberg is going to be popular and people are going to want to meet you, especially the ladies. If you don't know how to act around a beautiful woman, there will be so many missed opportunities that you will regret for the rest of your life."

Sneering at the very idea of receiving dating advice from Butch, especially when Oswald was skeptical that he had had enough experience to give advice, Oswald stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the bar. It shattered and he made sure not to flinch as the glass cut deep. A few people turned to see the origin of the noise but the music drowned out most of the high pitch. Butch raised his hands in defense and said nothing else, turning back toward the stage. A small smile rose on his face.

Oswald shuffled up the stairway opposite the bar, leading to the balcony. The managerial office was located at the far end, away from the stage. He scampered inside and promptly locked the door. He yanked the blinds shut. He stood before his desk, his hand trembling as blood dripped down his palm.

How dare Butch embarrass him like that. Who did he think he was?

He tugged open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a first aid kit and tossing it onto the surface. He bit his lip, pain shooting into his wrist.

Even if it was true that his experience with the opposite sex was almost nonexistent, which he'd never admit even in death, it wasn't because he didn't try.

He sat in his tall, leather chair and opened the kit, searching for a pair of tweezers to pluck the large glass shard that stuck out between his thumb and forefinger.

He had tried several times during his younger days at school to woo someone, and more recently while under Fish's thumb. He thought he could impress them.

"I work close with Fish Mooney," he'd say and he could see the dollar signs in their eyes. The whole ordeal left an emptiness deep in his stomach. But at times he'd press on, ignoring the callused way they told him they loved him, just to feel a little less lonely. Usually once they realized he was too old to still be living with his English-challenged mother, they'd reject him outright.

He found the tweezers and, with a steady hand, slid the shard from his skin with a hiss. A new flow of blood gushed then and he pressed a thick piece of gauze over it. He made a fist to apply added pressure. With another pad of gauze, he wiped away the droplets of blood on his desk.

He hadn't attempted with another woman since owning the club. It had been too much pressure just to slink away from Maroni's grasp and needing to deal with the Liza fiasco all at once.

He sighed, remembering the sleepless nights trying to think of plausible evidence to expose Falcone's former housekeeper, who happened to die in the very spot where several of his customers were now seated.

But maybe Butch was right again. The club was suddenly a huge success and if they could keep the entertainment fresh, then there would be nothing to stop them. As long as Maroni kept his promise to Falcone. The last thing Oswald needed was to constantly look over his shoulder at his own club.

He ripped open another package of gauze with his teeth, replacing the blood drenched cloth.

Perhaps taking advantage of the situation would be good for him, allow him to live a little. His 30th birthday was drawing ever closer. His plan to become King of Gotham was certainly taking longer than he expected and his youthful years were dwindling. He already felt older than he was with the unwanted help of his crooked leg, which ached terribly on snowy and rainy nights.

And Sam was quite beautiful, both physically and musically. Oswald was fully aware his outburst had been uncalled for despite his personal reasoning behind it. She had politely declined his offer, that was all.

Still clenching his blooded fist tightly, he rummaged through his desk, trying carefully to not push over a pile of papers.

"This place is a pigsty," he growled.

The manila folder was toward the bottom of the second stack he shuffled through and he flipped it open. Sam's employee photo smiled up at him, the single dimple indented in her cheek. Her thick hair was gathered onto one shoulder, a single strand in the bunch spiraling into the air. He gazed into her dark, almost black, eyes and wondered what sorts of things she had seen in her lifetime.

An apology was in order for his rude behavior, she being one of the few who truly deserved one from him. A flash of apologizing to Maroni or Fish entered his mind and he couldn't stop his laughter. Maybe if they cried for their lives hard enough he would, but that was a very strong maybe. But first he'd plant a shoe on each of their faces and stomp _hard._

He lifted the gauze and examined the wound. Blood still flowed but at a slower rate. He didn't see any need for stitches so he dressed the wound neatly, wrapping a bandage around the width of his palm to keep it secure.

He scanned through Samantha "Sam" O'Shea's folder and found her primary contact phone number. It would just be a simple, quick, informal apology, no longer than a couple of minutes. Hello, apology, goodbye, hang up. He read the phone number once, twice, singing it in his head, his hand hovering over the corded phone sitting at the corner of his desk. But he never picked up the receiver. Again, he read aloud the phone number, ten simple numbers. It was easy. Just pick up the phone, Oswald.

He closed the folder and huffed. He'd be seeing her in a few days anyway. He'd apologize then. He tossed the folder back onto the pile, the thin corner of the paper slitting his thumb.


	2. Poking the Sleeping Penguin

Oswald woke late that Monday, completely unprofessional he'd admit, but his mind was too tired to crawl out of bed. Even once he did, he groaned and sighed with every movement of his muscles. Sleep hadn't come easy to the poor little Penguin; he'd tossed and turned most of the night, his mind racing. Maroni, Fish, Falcone, Iceberg Lounge, Samantha then back to Maroni. All he wanted was to rest, sleep away the dark circles around his eyes.

He stood in his small bathroom then, shivering as the shower water turned hot slower than a snail's pace. Winter was coming early to Gotham that year, he could feel it. He watched his reflection in the mirror begin to fog, distorting the image of his wild hair. He'd forgotten to wash out the product the night before and surely his pillow now smelled of hair spray.

His shower only triggered more shivers, his thin body huddling under the stream of steamy water as best it could. He didn't want to move away to reach his soap or shampoo in fear of the freezing air that would send him into a fit of tremors. So he stood incredibly still, arms folded over his chest, the water beating down the back of his neck, watching the water swirl down the drain. Every day he told himself to buy a space heater and every day he shivered into the shower.

After almost ten minutes into his shower, he finally built up the courage to reach for the shampoo, but when he poured it directly on his head, the cold seized his breath. He quivered through the ordeal, dirty nails scrubbing at his scalp. The bar of soap came next, which he endured with gritted teeth. Rinsing came soon after, his body sighing with relief.

Wrapping two towels around himself, one around his waist and the other around his shoulders to trap the heat, he quickly combed out his hair. He slid his bangs to the side and smashed them down, allowing them to dry at an angle so styling would be less difficult.

The towel was still around his shoulders after slipping on his undershirt and boxer briefs for the day. The landlord would certainly receive an earful about the complete absence of heat in the building. He pried on a pair of black socks with stiff fingers.

A quiet chime echoed in the corner of his room, pleasant notes ringing as his cellphone vibrated on his bedside table. He yanked the charging cord away and glanced at the screen. He sighed and mussed the hair on the back of his head before pressing the green button.

"I'm sorry, Butch. I wasn't feeling well this morning," he lied, forcing himself to stand and trudge down the hall into the tiny kitchen. "Too sick to call, my apologies."

He opened the refrigerator door only to close it a second later. When was the last time he bought groceries? Either way, a tuna sandwich was a meal fit for a king, a future King of Gotham, and he remembered he had a few cans left.

"Well, you better hurry up and take your medicine," Butch snapped on the other line. "Zsasz will be here soon for an inspection. Falcone is wondering how things are going and you're not here!"

Oswald had just finished unscrewing the top of the can. "I-I told you, I was sick." His heart began thumping wildly. He squeezed the metal top of the tuna into the can and threw it into the empty refrigerator before running back into the bathroom. The cold miraculously didn't seem to bother him anymore.

"Yeah, and I'm going to tell him that but who knows if he'll believe me."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he stammered, tucking his phone against his ear and shoulder while pinching the last of his toothpaste onto the bristles. He'd have to send Gabe out to pick up some groceries later in the day. "Have Gabe come pick me up. Just tell Victor I'm running errands."

"That's worse than the first lie," Butch chuckled nervously. "Why are you really not here? It's almost three o'clock."

"I just couldn't sleep; too much to think about."

Butch paused, his voice lowered in a sly whisper. " _Thinking,_ right."

"What exactly are you insinuating?"

"Just wondering if you took my advice last night."

Oswald suddenly brushed his teeth vigorously, slamming his thumb down on the end call button.

It seemed too unprofessional for Butch to continuously make fun of his inexperience. Even after spending time in Zsasz's basement, he still had a mouth on him.

After brushing his teeth, he dried his hair as quickly as he could, then submerged himself in a cloud of hair spray. He lay the strands meticulously, spraying generously until it was to his liking. Then, to mask the smell of the spray, he spritzed some of his favorite cologne across his chest and behind his ears.

He was lucky he had picked out his suit the night before so dressing took no time at all. First came a white buttoned shirt, then thin suspenders, and then a black crossover bow tie. A purple vest was next that lay nicely under a black jacket that had thick, gray stripes. He stuffed a matching pocket square into his jacket and slipped on his shiniest black shoes, tying them tight. Collecting his cellphone, keys, coat and a pair of cufflinks to put on during the ride there, he slammed the door shut behind him as he left his little apartment, locking it firmly.

* * *

 

All eyes were on Oswald as he entered the club, panting from scurrying out of the car. Victor smiled widely.

"See, I told you he was running errands," Butch said loudly to Victor Zsasz so Oswald would hear. Sweat had collected thinly on his upper lip. The last thing in the world that he needed was to be alone with Zsasz more than he had to.

But Victor's sunken eyes scanned over the Penguin. "I don't see any bags."

"Gabe is unloading them in the back," Oswald said, holding the door closed as Gabe tried to enter. "You can never have too many… lightbulbs."

"Yes, lightbulbs," Butch agreed, smiling at Victor, but then rolled his eyes when the assassin turned away.

"The place looks good." Victor touched a lightbulb in the lamp on the table nearest to him. He watched carefully as Oswald shrugged off his long coat. "I told you I do good work. Right, Butch?" He patted the man on the back, ignoring his flinch.

Oswald draped his coat over one arm, smiling hesitantly at Victor. "Ah, yes, great work. Thank you again, Victor."

"Don Falcone is impressed by your overnight success," Victor continued, ignoring the compliment. He wandered toward Oswald, checking the neatness of the tablecloths. "But he's still cautious for the long term. Because of that, I'll be making periodic visits." He stopped inches away from the Penguin, impressed he didn't flinch under his shadow. "And I won't always tell you when I'm coming."

"Then it'll be quite the happy surprise, I assure you," Oswald smiled curtly. "Is there a special drink I can have ready for you?"

Victor laughed softly, his voice skipping over air in the way it did when he was especially amused. "Funny little Penguin, I'll see you around."

Butch waited until the door was closed firm behind Victor before he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "You can't leave me alone with him. I still have nightmares every night, dreaming of his basement." He trembled and stumbled to the back of the bar, snatching the closest bottle he could get his hands on and poured himself a tall drink.

"You can't expect me to be here from open to close on the off chance he'll stop by. Unless you do something again that would make Falcone distrust you, you have nothing to worry about."

Butch rolled his eyes at the word "again" and slammed back his drink.

"Besides, I have faith in our little establishment." He smiled warmly at his nervous friend, straightening a cufflink. "Saturday was a success, as was last night. If we stay consistent there will be nothing standing in our way, I can feel it."

"We'll see how your girlfriend performs tonight." Butch poured himself another drink and gulped it down. He scoffed at Oswald's annoyed look. "I'm just joking with you, lighten up."

"Boss, why'd you lock me out?" Gabe asked, coming in through the kitchen.

Oswald turned abruptly and limped toward the stairs, déjà vu becoming quite clear as he entered the office. He hung his coat on the rack on the wall near the door and collapsed into his chair, running a hand down his face. It hadn't exactly been the type of morning he had ever wanted and his growling stomach was enough evidence of that. He shuffled through the papers on his desk once again, searching for a take-out menu.

* * *

Oswald awoke in his leather chair with a stiff neck and a wooden chopstick dangling from his fingers. An empty plastic container with the remains of his delivered sushi sat in front of him, a few slices of ginger and a smear of wasabi still there. He groaned, straightening his back and hearing it pop. He tossed the chopstick into the wasabi and reached into the left hand drawer for a bottle of aspirin.

His head was throbbing at an alarming capacity, his ears humming as if there were hundreds of people right outside his office. He rubbed his brow. Then he was hearing voices. Then a conversation, their words clear as day. And they _were_ coming from outside the office.

Standing suddenly, he hissed, gripping his leg. Never again would he fall asleep in a chair for his body's sake. With a heavier limp, he peeked through the blinds and was greeted with the back of a woman's head. Her hair was long and wild, dyed the color of the sky on a cloudless day. A man stood next to her, his arm around her waist. His hair was buzzed but dyed neon pink. Another man was next to him, then another, then another woman. Oswald saw several heads, all talking, laughing. Some were taking photos; others were talking on their cellphones. The balcony was full to the brim.

Oswald straightened himself, glancing in the mirror in the tiny washroom on the other side of the office, before venturing out. He had to excuse himself, the door bumping into a young woman, possibly too young to be inside a bar. He locked the door behind him, suspicious of someone entering. He was quite aware of his knee as he slunk through the crowd to get to the stairs, his hobble accidentally forcing him to bump into several people.

Downstairs wasn't any easier to move through. The tables and chairs had been removed to make room for the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd that was gathered there. The stage was quiet with only the neon umbrella there to occupy the space. He managed to pass the bar, where the bartenders were flustered with orders, and pushed open the doors to the kitchen.

"Butch?" Oswald called out, his voice failing to hide his nervousness. "Has anyone seen him?"

"I'm here, I'm here. What's wrong?" Butch scampered over, glancing around Oswald's person. Was he injured? Or worse, was Zsasz back?

"What's going on?" Oswald squeaked, gesturing out into the main room. "We're over capacity!"

"Oh," Butch sighed, laughing at his panic. "I'm not completely sure, but I believe that's because of your girl."

Oswald's mouth bobbed, his brain unable to form words. "But there's at least two hundred people out there."

"Yeah and there was a line outside too, but we had to show them away. This place just isn't big enough." His smile grew alongside Oswald's shock.

"B-but the tables and chairs are—"

"I had to rent a truck. It's all parked out back." He laughed heartily and took Oswald's shoulder, shaking it lightly. "Just take a breath, relax. If there's that many people outside, it can only mean she's really good. You sure know how to pick them."

Oswald laughed breathily, forcing himself to smile. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine a full house, let alone one that was packed like sardines. It had to violate several health and safety codes and the thought of being shut down because of it only fueled his anxiety. He shuffled out of the kitchen, Butch's hand still on his shoulder, and was greeted to a series of cheers and whistles toward the door.

A path was forming, high fives and hugs being shared as Sam entered the club. Her smile was bright in the neon lights, her dimple deeper than Oswald had ever seen it. She wore the same leather jacket she had worn the last time he had seen her along with faded jeans and a dark t-shirt. Her boots rose just past her ankles, the material a deep crimson. Oswald couldn't help but admire the color. Her thick hair was tied back in a messy bun, her bangs tucked to the side.

Sam greeted Butch with a hug and a warm smile as if they had been old friends. Oswald found it odd, but almost expected a hug as well. Instead, she held out her hand to him, her back straight. Her dark eyes were clouded with her heavy black makeup but he could still see them pierce through him. His first impression had settled the type of relationship they would have, he feared. He would forever be the formal, short-tempered boss.

He took her hand and shook, then pulled her in closer. "I apologize for my behavior the other night," he said into her ear, trying to be heard over the crowd. "I was not myself."

She leaned in as well, saying into his ear, "Don't worry about it, already forgotten." She squeezed and patted his arm.

A tingle grazed Oswald's spine and he felt his face grow hot.

"Here, I brought you something." Sam reached into the inside of her leather jacket and handed him a small, plastic container. "I hope you don't mind but I brought some friends to play other instruments. You don't have to worry about paying them. They've owed me a favor for quite a while." She patted his arm again, flashing her boss a smile. "See you later." And then she was off, disappearing into the crowd.

Oswald turned away, nudging closer to the door of the kitchen, hiding behind the divider. He opened the container and inside were two neon orange earplugs. He glanced up on stage as another wave of cheers echoed in the room. Sam and four men walked about, setting up their equipment. A drum set was pushed out on a pallet from backstage.

Sam took center stage and tapped the mic. A few fans cheered at the brain-scrambling feedback. She laughed and pointed toward their direction.

How had Oswald never heard of her before? She clearly had a very strong following and she was beloved by so many. So many, in fact, that the club was too small to house them all. And who knew how many more were out there? Was she centralized in Gotham or had she traveled outside the city limits to perform? How long had she been performing? What was that scent she was wearing that had made his head swim?

Oswald ducked his head as he felt his cheeks warm again. He tucked the earplugs in snuggly just as she addressed the crowd.

"How're you guys doing tonight?" Sam asked the room, her voice smooth and soft. She smiled as they cheered. "Over here we have Tommy Hallowton." She gestured to the man to her right, holding a bright yellow bass guitar. His light hair was styled and parted at the side. A metal ring pinched his left eyebrow.

"And over here there's Brax Donovan," she announced, gesturing to the man on her left. His guitar was deep maroon, the body chipped in several places. His dark hair was tied back into a small ponytail.

"Behind me is Vince Williams." The drummer tapped the bass drum with his foot which gathered a stronger applause. The neon umbrella shone against his bald head.

"And I am Sammy O'Shea and we will be your entertainment for the evening." She bowed and the crowd went wild. A few fans screamed cat calls as she swung the strap of her bright green electric guitar over her head.

"But, before we get started, I'd like to thank my boss for the opportunity to be here." She licked her lips, her smile overbearing. "But this place is so hot," she whined, flapping her jacket to let in some air. "You'd think the Iceberg Lounge would be colder." Her hand hid her eyes in embarrassment but the crowd cheered anyway. "That was dumb, but I had to. OK, let's get started."

* * *

The hum of the amplifier began to fade on their final song but Sam kept her final note strong. The crowd cheered and whistled the effort even after she had taken a breath.

"Thanks guys," she panted into the mic. She wiped her sleeve on her forehead, the sweat smearing on the leather. "We'll see you later." She lifted her guitar over her head, holding it tight as she and her bandmates took their bows. The audience roared with applause as they exited the stage, Tommy bouncing with excitement.

Oswald's own applause was drowned out by the cheering but he felt he was clapping the loudest. Never would he have imagined a performance of such caliber in his club. Despite his taste in music still differing from what he had just seen, he knew talent when he saw it. Her voice was fluid and wild but a note never faltered, control was never lost. Even though she had lost a guitar pick or two, she'd nonchalantly take another from the pocket of her jacket and continue on as if nothing happened. She'd interacted with the audience, sometimes recognizing someone and greeting them by name. She flirted, she screamed, she danced. She knew what to do, how to do it and when to do it. To Oswald, she had been near perfection if perfection could exist.

The nervous pit in his stomach returned and his clapping stopped. The feelings he was experiencing were those he had only felt a handful of other times in his life and each one of those times ended in heartbreak. What made him think Sam could be any different? The nervous pit wrenched inside him.

Butch nudged Oswald on the arm with his elbow, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together greedily. Penguin smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. It was true that as long as they kept Sam employed, and as long as she stayed relevant, money would be no issue. But he wondered what the restrictions were for being in a relationship with an employee.

A suspicious warmth rose over him and he turned away into the kitchen. The door swung behind him and he plucked the plugs from his ears.

He did not just think that, he did _not_. It was just the energy she was giving off during the show that had given him butterflies, that was all. It was just a surge of endorphins and his mind was playing tricks, that was all. But then why was his face still hot and his hands still clammy? He wiped them on his pants, which helped little. The thought had been a fluke, it had to be. He was much, much too busy to ever think about sharing his life with another person. And it was much, much too soon to even consider her as a companion.

Besides, Mother already assumed he was with a hussy every night. It was best to not fuel that thought. Not that he thought Sam was a hussy. She seemed nice and respectable and attractive.

The kitchen door swung open behind him. He twisted around quickly as if he were hiding a dirty little secret, which he was starting to doubt he didn't have. Sam stood there, two glasses of bubbling champagne in her hands. Her face was flushed and moist but the dark makeup around her eyes hadn't dripped. Her hair was pulled back in a much looser ponytail, her bangs brushed to the side but still sticking to her forehead. It was then Oswald realized she was just as tall as he, perhaps even a fraction of an inch taller.

"Butch said you were hiding in here," she smiled, her voice still breathy from exhaustion. "What did you think of the show?"

Oswald stammered, pushing his thoughts away as best he could. "Very entertaining." He smiled with a small twitch of uncertainty in his lips.

Sam noticed this and chuckled. "I know it's not your preference, sorry. But I think you'll grow to like it. Plus, it brings in a good crowd, don't you think?"

"Yes, it certainly does." She seemed unaware of how poorly the club had been doing previously and Oswald thought it best to keep her in the dark.

"Oh, here," she gasped, handing Oswald one of the glasses of champagne. "I still owed you a drink."

Oswald took the glass, his brows furrowing in question. "You owed me a drink?"

"Well, as you so eloquently put it, I'm more enthused to join in the festivities now." She took a sip then patted Oswald on the shoulder when his lips tightened in a thin line. "I'm just joking."

"Yes, joking." He took a long sip of his drink, debating whether to finish it altogether. His eyes selected a crate of fruit sitting on the counter beside him to look at instead of her. His good thoughts from earlier crashed down into a pile of dust and rubble. "We'll have to schedule your next performance at a later date. Butch will contact you." He swallowed the rest of his drink, tucking the glass almost protectively against his chest. He wanted nothing more than to leave the conversation. He was on the verge of snapping, belittling her for mocking him. But he needed the business so his tongue stayed still.

"Oh." Sam muttered, watching the foam collect at the bottom of her boss's glass. Her eyes tipped downward like a puppy that was just kicked. Her dimple disappeared. "Alright."

Oswald kept his hard exterior as best he could, but the nervous pit dug even deeper into his gut. He felt nauseous. His hands were sweating. How was this girl unwinding him so quickly? Soon he'd be putty in her hands if he couldn't keep his emotions intact. He needed to stay focused, keep his goal in mind and not let some stranger allow him to stray.

He swallowed hard and furrowed his brow. But all he could say was, "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have champagne anymore." His attempt at a lighthearted laugh was strained. "It goes straight to my head."

Sam nodded in acknowledgement but a smile never formed. "Oh, it's no problem." She set her glass on the counter next to her, her fingers lingering on the long stem for a moment longer. "I should get going. It's late and I have to catch the bus."

Oswald set his glass down beside hers, noticing a chip of violet polish missing from her thumb. "If you'd like to stay longer, I can have Butch drive you home, it's no –"

"No, no," Sam interrupted. Her words stumbled over themselves. "I-I need to get back, but thank you." She began picking at a callus growing from the corner of her thumb, her fingers jittering as they dug.

Oswald's eyes glanced down at her hands and they stopped.

Sam tucked her hands in the pockets of her jacket and she shrugged them from inside. "I guess this is goodnight."

"If you change your mind about the ride offer, don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks again." The kitchen doors swung quietly behind her.

Her departing smile stabbed guilt into his heart. He covered his eyes with his palm and sighed.

 _She's going to quit because of you if you can't get your act together,_ he hissed at himself. _For once in your life, try to act normal._


	3. Hands From The Darkness

Final trigger warning: story contains scenes of domestic abuse and self harm

 

* * *

Sam tugged at her sleeves, her nails digging deep into the thick fabric. Old indents lined the seams on her sleeves, evidence of one of her many comforting rituals. Her vision blurred, lids weighed down by tears that threatened to spill over. But she tilted her head up and stared at the smog rolling over the stars during the frigid night. The blue neon umbrella that was mounted to the entranceway of the club reflected off her strained tears and she had to look away.

_Why did you have to take another job?_ She began biting the inside of her cheek, the fog of her breath warming her face. _You know you've been under a lot of stress already, and now this?_ The tears began spilling down the sides of her face, collecting in the notches of her ears. _You're in public, stop it._

A strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around her middle, squeezing tightly. She groaned under the pressure, but welcomed the embrace. She gripped the wrists tightly and opened her mouth to expel a phony yawn. She wiped her tears away, careful to not smear her makeup.

"Sammy's tired already?" Brax teased behind her, giving her sides a tickle. The musk of his sweat and cologne engulfed Sam, almost inviting the tears to return.

"I'd be surprised if she wasn't," Vince sighed, stretching his arms across his chest. A bicep twitched involuntarily. "That was a crazy show." He then hopped to his friends, wrapping his arms around the both of them. He shivered playfully against them.

Sam yawned again, harder and longer than the first. Her bottom lip twitched and she wiped her sleeve across her eyes. She never understood why she'd tear up whenever the boys hugged her so kindly. Or perhaps she did know, deep down, but was too afraid to realize.

Tommy yawned as well before lighting a cigarette. "Geez, stop it, Sammy," he laughed. "You know it's contagious." He ran his thick fingers through his light hair, taking a long drag.

"Hey, can I bum one off of you?" Brax asked, releasing Sam with one hand and holding it out to Tommy. His friend obliged and held the lighter steady as the paper lit.

Sam grimaced at the smell and wiggled away from the vises. "You know that's a disgusting habit."

Brax's eyes widened, his mouth gaped extravagantly. "You just don't know what you're missing!" He took a puff, his lips then curling into a devilish smile. The smoke seeped through his teeth, drifting into the cold autumn air. He laughed heartily, phlegm vibrating in his throat.

Vince lightly smacked his arm, brow furrowed. "Relax," he demanded. Brax shrugged and took another puff.

_Stupid, stupid._ Sam zipped her jacket to her chin. _You're so stupid._

A group of teenagers approached Tommy and Brax, disguising a cigarette request with praise for the show. Sam suspected they hadn't even been old enough to watch from inside.

"I'm going to go," Sam announced quietly to herself, eyeing her friends as they were swamped by another group of fans just exiting the club. She turned and walked briskly down the street, haloing her ponytail to hide her face.

Her fingers picked at the seams once again, the wind numbing them quickly. But she welcomed the pins and needles, the spot in the leather her finger repeatedly rubbed feeling smooth, almost otherworldly. Back and forth, back and forth her finger polished the material. The spot would be bald in no time and only then would she move to a different spot.

She kept her head down, counting the lines between the sidewalk. She was very aware of the bustling city around her, despite the late hour. It wasn't a new experience to walk around the city alone with only the light of neon signs to guide her home. She learned quickly to keep to herself, and to keep a full bottle of mace in her pocket.

Having mace on her at all times when she was out seemed unnecessary at first. She had been just a young woman then, barely nineteen, when she moved to Gotham from her tiny town across the country. The city had been scary but the nightlife was so exciting! Parties, dancing, drinking, and especially flirting with cute boys had made life seem weightless and never-ending. Danger was never on her carefree mind. Until hands had grabbed her from the darkness one night as she walked home, a tequila buzz still warm in her brain. The hands ripped and teared, punched and clawed. She had been filled quickly and left in the back of an alleyway, panties shredded around her ankles. She lay there undiscovered until the next morning when an officer out on his morning route noticed her. The case never moved forward from its initial interview after the DNA that was collected hadn't matched anyone in the criminal data base.

It had been just another day in Gotham.

Sam clenched her jaw tightly, remembering the swift kick to the back of her head that had left her seeing stars on that hot, summer night. She couldn't scream, she couldn't cry no matter how badly she wanted to. Her mind had only blurred protectively and she allowed it to happen. A part of her died that night, she believed, though still never quite knew which part it was.

She gripped the mace in her pocket, perking up to the sound of a group of men laughing in the threshold of a club across the street. She only glanced over for a moment, analyzing the scene in her mind after she had looked away. There were four or five of them, drinking and smoking and otherwise not noticing her. Her pace quickened, her thighs burning as she pushed forward.

_Just a few more blocks._

It was then she couldn't differentiate between the thumping of her heart in her ears or a scramble of foot falls dashing behind her. She was sprinting then, cramps pinching in her muscles. But she wouldn't stop until she was at the entrance of the apartment building, its familiarity unbelievably needed. Her fingers fiddled with her keys for only a moment before the door was open. She bolted inside and slammed the door behind her, holding her breath. She waiting, expecting fists and boots to bang on the wood, shouting for her. She waited, her hand tight and trembling on the doorknob. But the noises never came. Sam didn't know if the footsteps had been real or if it had truly been only her frantic heart.

She checked the doorknob until she seemed satisfied that it was locked. Her hands trembled and she held them together, watching her knuckles turn pink from the grip. She forced her mind to focus on a single item, to keep her grounded, to keep the hyperventilation away. The freckles on her boss's nose became that one item, despite their chaotic pattern over his skin. It hadn't been intentional and the intimate thought made her blush. His icy eyes came then, their intensity creating a strange knot in her chest.

Her boots carried her down the hallway and up the stairs to the third floor, being careful to skip over a few toys that were strewed over the landing. They always seemed to be there and she often wondered if a child even lived in the building. Fumbling with her keys once more, she unlocked the door to the apartment, good ole number thirty-six, and flipped the light switch next to the threshold. Kneeling down, she untied and slipped off her boats, setting them by the door, which she promptly locked.

The small living room was empty and quiet except for the ticking clock mounted above the loveseat. The kitchen and the hallway, which lead to the bathroom and bedroom, were dark and just as eerily quiet.

"Noah?" Sam called out and waited a moment for a reply that never came. Switching on the light in the hallway, she checked the bedroom. The sheets on their bed were tossed and twisted. Clothes littered the floor. Posters lined the walls, the adhesive that held a few of them beginning to fail. The mirror mounted to the closet door was smudged with fingerprints and lipstick kisses. It may have been disorganized but it was her disaster and she felt comfortable in its anarchy.

She peeled away her leather jacket and tossed it on the bed. She stretched and yanked the tie from her hair, fluffing her head and sighing with relief. It had been such a strange night but she was home safe and sound. She lifted her shirt over her head and added it to the pile on the floor. She was careful to keep her eyes away from the mirror, purposely looking far away enough that her peripheral couldn't register her figure. She slipped away her bra. The last thing she needed was to ruin the night more by seeing her ugly self.

Keeping her eyes locked onto the fist-sized hole in the wall over their bed, she dressed into her pajamas, which was nothing more than a hole-filled shirt and sweatpants. She pulled on a sweatshirt as well, shivering in her cold clothes. She rubbed her hands together and left the bedroom, glancing at the thermostat in the hallway. Noah had left the heat off again but she didn't dare turn it on.

With frigid fingers, she pulled a plate from the kitchen cabinet, only to put it back and replace it with one that didn't have a jagged, missing piece. She made herself a simple sandwich with the last of the luncheon meat in the refrigerator and poured herself a handful of potato chips. A beer accompanied the meal and she curled up on the loveseat to eat, the plate tucked nicely against her chest.

The television on the other side of the room glowed for a moment before the picture popped on screen, the image speckled with static. A commercial for the latest beauty cream flashed smiles to its audience and Sam muted it hurriedly. She stared at her sandwich, taking a forceful bite. The bread was crusted as if it had been toasted. Noah had probably left the packaging open so it had dried out from exposure. But she took another bite.

_Food is food,_ she insisted. _It still tastes the same._

The commercial ended abruptly and she unmuted the television. A news anchor cleared her throat and began reading the teleprompter.

"Our final report tonight," she began, her brows furrowing over brown eyes, "unfortunately, is an update on the latest string of serial–"

A key entered the lock of the front door and Sam jumped, quickly muting the television once again. She smiled at Noah as he walked in and quickly finished chewing her mouthful of chips. A black duffle bag hung from his shoulder.

"Why are all these lights on?" Noah snapped, and quickly stomped to the hallway, flicking the lights off. He then went to the kitchen and did the same.

"Sorry," Sam quickly said, setting her plate down on the coffee table in front of her. She stood to attention, her hands wriggling under her long sleeves. "I forgot. My mind is working faster than my body." Her laugh was strained but she kept her smile as genuine as possible.

"That's alright," Noah sighed, setting his bag down by the front door. He kicked off his shoes, setting them neatly next to her boots. His fingers ran through his sandy brown hair, swiping it away from his face. "Just… you know money is tight and we can't always pay the bills." His hands trailed down the sides of her arms, kissing her cheek.

"But that's the exciting news I have!" Her smile widened. She hugged him tightly and he reciprocated tenderly. "You should've seen the show tonight. The place was so packed I heard they couldn't fit everyone inside! My boss said that he'll schedule another show with me soon. He really seemed to like us. I have a feeling I'll be doing a lot of shows there."

Noah's hug tightened. "That's great! What's your boss's name?" His voice was terse. His hug squeezed her shoulders tighter. His hot breath warmed her ear.

"Oswald Cobblepot," she groaned, her lungs struggling to expand. His grasp released suddenly and she swallowed down a cough. "His place is the club that used to have the big neon fish skeleton on the front."

Noah's brow twitched for a moment, his green eyes glowing with intensity. "That's great. How old is he?"

Sam paused for a moment. "What?"

His hands clasped into fists. "How _old_ is he?"

"I don't know, maybe late twenties?"

"Do you think he's attractive?"

Sam could feel her pulse racing in her throat, blood rushing in her ears. She quickly said no, not allowing her mind to consider if she did or not. But Oswald's piercing eyes swam to the surface of her thoughts and a headache scratched through her forehead.

"Do you have the money from the show?"

A cold chill ran through her veins. Her lips pursed, the skin turning white. _Oh no, how did you forget? How could you? You forgot the guitar too. You had been so busy trying to get away from your boss that you forgot everything._

His hand lashed out, yanking her forward. His fingers pressed deeply into her arm. His jaw clenched but his voice was velvet. "That's alright. We'll head over there in the morning and collect the cash. You did tell him to only pay you in cash, right?"

"Of course, of course." She involuntarily flinched as he stroked her cheek and she was quick to apologize.

"That's my girl," he whispered sweetly, cupping her face in his hands. He kissed her deeply, moaning as his tongue snaked into her mouth. His hands explored her quickly, grabbing her flesh until it burned.

A whimper escaped her throat, his hands grabbing her breast and clutching it almost desperately. But the pain surged into her armpit with lightning speed and she had to pry him away. His other hand took hold of her other breast, the clamp just as fierce as the last.

"You're hurting me," she gasped, breaking away from the kiss. But his mouth found hers again, silencing her. Her back pressed against the wall of the hallway, his chest smashing her to it. Her hands were lifted and held above her head with one strong hand. The other hand slunk its way under her hole-filled shirt where a pair of callused fingers pinched, tweaked and pulled.

She shook her head. He'd stop, right? He eventually stopped all the other times. He'd let her breathe, take a break once the mood lifted, just like the other times. He worked hard at his job all day and all he wanted was to let off a little steam once he got home. That was all. He just needed to let off some aggravated steam. His coworkers always gave him such a hard time and his boss was always an ass.

"Baby, stop crying," he whispered in her ear. "You know I love you. You know no one else could." His teeth nibbled gently on her earlobe. His thumbs swept across her cheeks, smearing away blackened tears. "Why don't you go wash up and meet me in bed, hmm?"

Sam's head nodded hesitantly, her nose beginning to run. She agreed with a trembling voice and his hands immediately left her. She scurried down the hall, closing and locking the bathroom door behind her.

Her eyes mistakenly saw her reflection in the smudged mirror above the sink. Her mouth gaped, her face contorted, and pressure overcame her head as she screamed silently. Her hands balled into fists against her eyes. Her nails raked into her temples, scratching her ears, digging down her cheeks. With an open hand, she struck her face. She threw her sweatshirt away, then her t-shirt. Red, fingertip-shaped marks had lined themselves across her breasts and they heaved as she screamed inwardly once more. Her throat was seized raw and she cupped her hands over her mouth as a sob threatened to explode.

She looked at the mirror again, her fingers once again digging into her cheeks. Streaks of black soiled her face. Jagged lines of broke flesh scattered across her arms and chest, down her stomach and legs, some fresh and pink, others old and shiny. The pure definition of chaos was embedded into her skin. Years of harm and relief, days and nights of silent whimpering, locked inside several different bathrooms and bedrooms. Scars upon scars upon scars, splashed together in every which way, haphazardly defined her muscles and veins. Her skin would forever be rippled and grooved. Most were shallow, nothing more than thin lines. But a few were large, deep, and hideous. The largest followed the lining of her outer thigh, made on a particularly bad, drunken night. But the deadliest ran across the front of her hips, made by a particularly bad, drunken ex-boyfriend who hadn't wanted children; and now because of it, she never would.

And it took all she had to not punch the glass that moment. The pierce of a sharpened edge was what she craved, what she deserved. Noah would be furious if she broke anything so she turned away from the mirror for the final time. Opening the bottom drawer on her side of the sink, she found a matchbox that once belonged to her favorite Italian restaurant that had closed down years ago. Sliding it open, her fingers trembled as her nails caught and lifted one of the many sections of a box cutter blade she had inside. Clarity came over her for a brief moment and she could've sworn there hadn't been that many last time she accessed it.

But it didn't matter how many there were or how many there would ever be. As long as there was at least one.

"Baby," Noah called from the other side of the door. "Please patch yourself up before you come to bed. I just found old blood on the sheets again."

Sam tried to apologize, tried to push words through her aching throat, but only air puffed from her lungs. She cupped her mouth again, another sob trying to break through. With her other hand, while delicately holding the small blade between her fingers, she slipped away her pants and underwear, and stepped into the tub. She curled up tightly, her knees pressing against her chest, and shivered against the cold porcelain. The showerhead stared judgingly down at her. The cold stabbed into her back, her exposed limbs burning. Her breathing quickened, her fingers trembled. An angry gurgle rumbled in her stomach, screaming to be fed.

She took the first cut, nothing more than a thin line across the top of her thigh. The fresh scab from the previous night chipped off and the blood rushed immediately.

_Look at it, look at it. This is what you deserve._

Another slice, then another, a little deeper than the last. The rush of relief wasn't coming and the tears came harder.

_You've screwed up again. Why else would he hurt you? He knows you deserve it. He knows better than you._

"Baby," Noah called again. "Are you in the tub like we talked about?"

Sam turned on the faucet, the freezing water washing over her toes.

"Good girl. Don't take too long. It's getting late."

* * *

Sam stood in front of the space heater on the bathroom counter, waiting for the water in the shower to warm. Her body trembled but she didn't feel cold. Her hair was wild and plastered to one side of her face with sweat, clear evidence of a restless night. Her legs and back ached. The large patch of gauze taped to her thigh was crusty and maroon.

But she felt no ill will toward Noah. He had been gentler than usual. He must've known that she had also had a long day as well.

Noah was a passionate and intense lover. Sam didn't mind her submissive role. It made him happy. He'd always tell her he loved her afterwards, and the tears would change to relief and happiness. She could never hear those three small words enough. Then, he'd snuggle close to her, his hand possessively around her neck, and begin snoring in her ear. She'd giggle at the tiny twitches his body would make in deep sleep; they were so adorable. Yes, it would be scary to wake up in the middle of the night with his fingers tightening around her throat as he dreamed, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't doing it on purpose. He loved her, just like he always said.

_No one else could love you,_ she thought, her eyes betraying her as they caught her reflection in the mirror. Four circular bruises were lined down the side of her neck. She examined the dark, sensitive area and sighed quietly. She could either wear a scarf for the next few days or tell everyone they were hickies, so harmless and playful. Would they believe her lie? She hated lying for Noah's roughhousing but it was better than him being very angry with her.

The mirror began to fog so she stepped gingerly into the shower. The water scorched her back but she stood still as it did. Her fists clenched tightly. The burning release she had wanted the night before was filling her mind.

The tears came quickly, the weight of her shame washing over her hotter than the water. She had only been awake for a few minutes that gloomy, snowy morning and already she had lost control. Her hands tugged at her hair, her lips curling back to expose grinding teeth. She hated the sad, little addiction she had, which forced her to hate herself even more. Self-mutilation seemed to be the only constant thing in her life that helped anchor her.

The freckles on her boss's nose popped into her mind again, the tiny dots burning themselves into a small corner of her brain for safe keeping. The sporadic pattern that danced around the ridges of his face gave her comfort. It was a sort of comfort that left her uneasy.

Oswald Cobblepot hadn't exactly been the friendliest person she'd ever worked for. His mood swings confused her, almost frightened her in the calm way he'd stare at her as his words stung. His anger seemed quick to ignite, almost to the point of being unprovoked. He'd snapped at her, mocked her with sarcasm. But he also smiled at her and apologized for his behavior. He had given her a job and had decided he liked her enough to ask her to come back, even if it had only been for the money. But business was business.

The similarities between him and Noah made her stomach turn. Was Oswald capable of putting his hands on her too? If he did, could she stop him?

The shower curtain rattled open and Noah stood there watching her. His morning erection throbbed at the sight of her soaked body.

"Don't waste so much hot water," he growled, slapping his hand down on the shower lever.

Sam apologized then gasped as a sting of cold water pelted her red back. She adjusted the lever to a more comfortable temperature as Noah stepped in, grabbing his shampoo bottle and lathering up.

"Do you think you could take care of this for me?" He poked her thigh with his erection. "It would be pretty awkward to meet your boss with a boner." He pressed her against the wall of the shower, taking the water for himself as he rinsed.

"I'm still pretty sore from last night," she laughed, catching her footing as it slipped on the slick flooring. "Maybe later tonight I'll do something special?"

He finished rinsing his hair silently. His lips were tight, his jaw tense. Once he felt the soap was gone from his scalp, his green eyes snapped open and stared down at her. His biceps twitched as his hands tightened into fists.

"I'm pretty sure I _asked_ now," he growled. "How about do your part for once, hmm? This relationship is failing because of your selfishness." Sam tried to interject, her lip trembling, but he only spoke louder. "Who's the one allowing you to do whatever you want, frolicking from club to club every night? Who's the one letting you continue to hurt yourself even though it _tears_ _me up_ inside knowing you do it?" He stepped closer, pressing himself against her. "But I know it's what you want to do and it makes you feel better. Don't you want me to feel better once in a while?"

Sam hid her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling with sobs. She flinched as he grabbed her hips, rubbing himself between her legs.

"I want to feel better too," he snarled and bit down on her shoulder.

She shrieked, cupping her mouth tightly. His teeth dug deep. Clouds of red swirled down the drain. He lifted her leg and grunted as he thrusted. His rough hand squeezed at her mouth, muffling her crying. But he loved the sounds she made as her pain escalated, until he hit a particular spot inside her and the crying dwindled. Her eyes glazed over, her jaw relaxing against his hand.

He grinned as he neared his finish, then bit down on her other shoulder. The taste of copper quickly teased his tongue.


	4. Noah White

Takes place during Season 1, Episode 18 "Everyone Has a Cobblepot"

 

* * *

"If I help you find where Loeb keeps his files, you give me ten minutes alone with them." Oswald's heart thumped in his ears. Negotiating was one of the fun parts of being an underboss, apart from the mindless carnage he loved dipping his hands in, especially when it was taking place in his territory, despite the fact that the club was empty at the moment. He felt it was more like practice for the day he'd finally become King. "I take what I want."

Jim Gordon hesitated.

"This is not a good idea," Harvey Bullock warned behind him, leaning against a post. Jim was digging his own grave for the thousandth time since they had been partners and it always seemed to be revolved around Penguin. Harvey had been reluctant to pay the criminal a visit, knowing he wouldn't give them information without some form of payment.

" _Five_ minutes," Jim said, "and you don't touch anything that has to do with the cops." He kept his voice leveled and stern, his nerves staying in check. But the thought of Penguin having access to possible vital information about Gotham's citizens made him uneasy. Was he really willing to risk that just to get to Loeb?

Oswald couldn't help but smile. "Five minutes with the files and a favor from Jim Gordon? Done!" He chuckled, his smile widening. This was his moment, his opportunity to rise in the ranks. He could only imagine the piles of juicy information he'd soon have his hands on. The farm was only about an hour's drive outside the city limits. He could hardly contain his excitement. "So, who's up for a road trip?"

The front doors opened, a gust of wind howling through the entrance of the club. The noise startled all three men, Harvey even placing a hand on his belt as a precaution. The muted light from outside was extinguished behind the doors and Oswald stumbled to his feet at the sight of Sam. Her hair was loose and tousled from the wind and she did her best to smooth it down. Her chin rested on a thick, green scarf around her neck, the fabric cradling her rosy cheeks. A scarlet pleated skirt draped nicely just past her knees, which matched the tiny purse strapped across her chest. Thick, black leggings teased the shape of her calves. She wore her usual leather jacket, which was slowly becoming Oswald's favorite thing about her. He didn't feel right calling the scene adorable so he pushed the word away, then shoved it violently when he noticed a man walk in beside to her.

Jim rose from his chair, his eyes studying Oswald's pursed lips and tense shoulders.

"Let's meet here again in an hour," Oswald mumbled. His jaw tightened once Sam caught sight of him and her dimple appeared again. She waited at the bar and whispered something to the man beside her. The man swallowed a laugh, looking at Oswald.

Jim followed Penguin's gaze, then raised his eyebrows at his partner.

"Alright, one hour," Harvey repeated, then patted Penguin on the back with one, hard slap. "You kids have fun. Let's go, Jim."

Oswald forced a smile and turned his attention back to Sam, gesturing her to join him at the table. He waited until the door latched shut behind the detectives before speaking.

"Quite chilly outside today, isn't it?" Oswald asked, gently placing the expensive bottle of _Madre di Dios_ back into its box and locking it inside.

"Yeah, what happened to autumn, right?" the man joked and sat beside Sam. His features were strong and intimidating to anyone weak minded. His emerald eyes were striking and weren't afraid to look wherever they pleased. His light brown hair was stiff with product and lay in waves at his temples. He took hold of her hand, intertwining their fingers, and displaying the gesture on the table.

Oswald eyed the way his thumb stroked the back of her hand and the anxious knot returned almost painfully in his gut. His lay his own hands in his lap, hiding his clenched fists under the table cloth.

"I'm sorry, you are…?" Oswald said, keeping his tone calm.

Sam cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, this–"

"It's Oswald," he interrupted. "Call me Oswald."

Sam smiled warmly, her dimple mocking him. "Oswald, this is Noah White, my boyfriend."

"Pleasure to finally meet you." Noah held out his hand in greeting and Oswald strained to relax his fist enough to respond. "Sammy has told me so much about you."

Oswald shook his hand once then forced them to part. "All good things, I hope." Her smile was killing him.

"Of course." Her fingers delicately adjusted her scarf closer to her neck. A momentary peek of a purple and red spot was seen on her skin and Oswald's face was hot almost immediately. A hickey was nothing more than a sign of possession and she had been marked.

"Are you still chilly? Would you like a warm drink?" His teeth would soon shatter if his jaws pressed together any harder.

"Oh, no thank you. We can't stay long."

_She's an employee,_ Oswald reminded himself. _An employee is causing you to react this way. In any other scenario, it would be borderline sexual harassment. An employee is allowed to be in a relationship without her employer, and that is what is happening here. Your reaction is completely inappropriate._

"Then to what do I owe this visit?"

Sam chuckled and leaned forward. "In all the commotion last night, I forgot to collect my paycheck."

"Of course. If you wait a moment, I'll go get it for you."

His mind raced as he hobbled up the staircase toward the office. He felt foolish thinking for even a brief moment that she had come just for him, just for a friendly visit.

The _Madre di Dios_ was secure in the crook of his elbow; there was no way in hell he'd trust it alone with a stranger.

He unlocked the office door and stood in the threshold for a moment. He could hear the irrefutable bass of Noah's voice downstairs. He was most likely whispering sweet nothings as they waited for his return. What Oswald wouldn't give to sit next to her and touch her, maybe feel her lips on his cheek.

The thought felt rushed, almost out of place, but he didn't push it away like he had so many times before. He blamed his sudden jealousy, which had sprouted the moment Noah had opened his mouth. There had never been any previous indication that Sam was in a relationship. But why would she?

_Did you expect her to announce it on her first day?_

He wanted what he couldn't have so why not let his mind run wild with fantasies?

He set the precious box on his desk. Dialing in the combination to the safe hidden behind a painting of some unknown Greek god, he couldn't help but compare himself to him. What could she see in Oswald if she had a tall, strong, and seemingly attractive lover already? The ugly little Penguin could never, and would never, be physically attractive the way society expected everyone to be. It had been his downfall in the past and would certainly be for the rest of his miserably lonely life. His finger traced down the bridge of his hooked nose.

He opened the safe with a jerk of the handle. It had been stuffed tightly from the weekend's success. He'd need to buy a bigger one very soon if said success continued. He plucked a stack of one hundred dollar bills, each bill crisp and secured by a mustard-colored band. Touching his fingers to his tongue, he counted out the promised amount of four hundred dollars. But it felt like an insult. So, without hesitating, his fingers glided over six more bills and tugged them from the band.

Closing the safe and twirling the combination to lock, he replaced the painting before leaving the office.

Over the balcony railing, he saw their table. Noah was sitting alone, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Oswald lightly stepped down the stairs, the bills tight in his fist.

The magician that was on stage had already left, probably out of frustration for performing in front of an empty room.

"Where's Samantha?" Oswald asked, hesitating before sitting back in his chair.

Noah jumped at his voice, then chuckled. "Wow, you're sneaky. She just went to the restroom. She shouldn't be much longer."

Oswald nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing, keeping his gaze away.

"The place looks great, by the way," Noah complimented. "I remember coming here a few times back when there was a fish skeleton sign outside."

"Yes, well, you won't be seeing any fish in here anymore."

"Oh, hey, is that the money?" Noah pointed to Oswald's tight grip. "I can take that if you want." He reached over but Oswald pulled away.

"I'd rather give it directly to her, if that's alright."

"What, you don't trust me?" Noah's eyes narrowed, his jaw adjusting in annoyance.

"We just met, so the fact that I don't shouldn't be a surprise to you."

"Are you suggesting I'd steal money from my girl?"

A 'yes' flashed instantaneously in his mind but Oswald didn't dare mutter it. "For thousands of years on this planet, humanity has been built on trade. Trading goods and services for other goods and services makes the world go 'round. This payment," he tapped the thousand dollars on the table, "is a good and will be given to the person who provided the services for my club. Only to her. So, until then, I will hold on to my trade for as long as need be."

Metaphorical smoke puffed from Noah's ears. The growing redness in his face forced Oswald to smile, which only made Noah more furious.

"You're a real prick," he hissed, staring daggers.

"I'm not the one being disrespectful to your girlfriend's employer, now am I? I'd be careful if I were you." He'd never dream of firing, or even threaten to fire, Sam but Noah didn't know that.

"Then maybe she should quit," Noah snapped, glancing around the empty club. "It looks pretty dead in here. Not a lot of opportunity for her."

Oswald scoffed. "You do realize it's a quarter past two on a Tuesday afternoon. Would any club be bustling at this time?" Though the emptiness did bother him, he'd wait a few more hours until he panicked. "If she chooses to quit for whatever business the club has or has not, it is between her and her employer."

_I don't know what I'd do if she quit, though I'm sure I'll find out once her perfect boyfriend tells her about this conversation._

Sam stepped to the table, her brows furrowed at the sight of Noah's reddened face. "Everything alright?"

Oswald didn't speak, his icy eyes watching Noah, daring him to say anything, to say one tiny syllable in complaint. His fingers ran up the sides of the cash, the paper flicking against itself in a shuttering motion. His mouth curled mischievously. _I dare you._

"Just small talk." Noah mumbled. He didn't dare break Oswald's gaze and that only made the Penguin's smile wider, showing yellowed teeth.

Sam glanced between the two men, her face pained with worry. "Maybe I shouldn't leave you two alone from now on."

"Nonsense," Oswald said cheerfully. "It's all good, harmless fun." He stood, politely pushing his chair into the table. He handed the cash to her which she took with timid fingers.

"You don't mind if I…"

"No, not at all. Go right ahead." He watched as she counted the bills. She hesitated after counting four of them, just as he'd predicted.

"I think you gave me too much," Sam said, pulling out the access cash. "Didn't we agree on four hundred?" She gave the extra to Oswald, but he held up his hand.

"Consider it a token of my gratitude. I can't express how appreciative I am for what you've done for the club." His smile softened at the sudden glow in her cheeks.

"I didn't do anything special," she laughed weakly.

"Whether you think so or not, it was. I'd like to think of myself as a generous employer."

Sam stumbled over her words, holding the money tightly in her hands. "W-well, thank you." Her dimple returned, deeper than ever. "You don't know how much that means to me, to us." She fidgeted for a moment, turning to Noah then back to Oswald, unsure of what to do. She eventually handed Noah the cash, who flashed a crooked smile and pocketed the stack.

Oswald's own smile faded at the sight and opened his mouth to speak but the air squeezed from his lungs as Sam wrapped her arms around him. He gasped involuntarily, the smell of her perfume overpowering his senses so much that he had no choice but to happily drown in it.

_Lavender and vanilla?  
_

His hands rested on her shoulder blades, unsure how tightly or informal he should respond. But from the way Noah's mouth strained to keep his smile, it all seemed perfect enough for that brief moment of their embrace. The warmth in Oswald's chest cooled a fraction as Sam pulled away.

She smiled shyly and took a step back. "Sorry." She laughed again, nothing more than a sharp breath. She turned to Noah for a brief moment and her smile immediately faltered.

Oswald noticed, his brow dipping.

"I'm sorry," Sam said again, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "I just very thankful, more than you know." She turned to Noah once more, and her bottom lip trembled.

"No harm done," Oswald said, studying her eyes where tears began to form.

"I think it's time to go," Noah said through clasped teeth. "We've got plans tonight, remember?" His stare was intense.

"Yes, plans," Sam agreed, her shaky voice betraying her.

"Before you leave," Oswald started, his stomach knotting into itself, "I believe you left your guitar here last night." His pulse raced down the side of his throat. "We had to move it backstage to make room for the magician today. If you'll follow me, I can show where it is." He outstretched his arm, gesturing toward the stage.

_Please, come with me._

"Oh, right, of course." Her fingers wriggled through themselves. Her hands trembled. "I'll be back in a moment," she told Noah. "I won't be long." She began walking but Noah grabbed her wrist.

"Why don't I join you?" he insisted and stood, staring down at Oswald, who hadn't realized how much taller he was.

"Only employees are allowed backstage, I'm afraid," Oswald retorted, sizing up the brute. He'd dealt with bigger men in the past. "It's a safety issue, you understand. I'd hate for something to fall from the rafters and injure you. Because Samantha is my employee, I've made sure to insure her on the off chance she's hurt in my club." His knuckle rapped on the table. "Knock on wood."

"It'll just be a minute," Sam said, a shaking hand touching his arm reassuringly. "Just a minute then we can leave. Ok?"

"A minute," Noah repeated and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Then we're leaving."

Oswald followed Sam closely as they walked across the room to the stage, glancing down to watch her skirt sway against her steps. His back stiffened at the sound of snickering behind him. He couldn't bring her backstage quick enough. Once they were, Sam turned to him, unable to make eye contact. She continued to pick at the callus on her thumb.

The backstage area was mostly empty including the rafters above. The drum set still sat on a pallet, tucked away in the corner. Various other instruments were strewn around as backup from Fish's days. Extra chairs and tables were stacked on top of each other in the other corner, gathering dust. Then there was a corner filled with boxes upon boxes of lightbulbs, just to keep Victor quiet.

"Where to?" she asked and sniffled.

"Are you alright?" Oswald stepped closer, while still keeping a professional distance.

"Oh, yeah," she laughed, smiling for a moment. "I think I'm getting a cold, that's all." She glanced around the darkened, mostly empty area. "Where is it?"

"Samantha… tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on. What I do in my personal life is none of your business anyway." She stepped back from him. "If you're not going to tell me where my guitar is I'm just going to leave."

"Because you _have_ to leave immediately. Because of your big plans tonight." His arms folded over his chest. "If you were in danger, would you tell me?"

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

With one finger, he caught a tear running down her cheek. She flinched. Her skin was soft, and so painfully fragile. "I'm suggesting something is going on that you're not being honest about." He could see it in her eyes, the lingering fear that escalated the more they spoke.

Had that even been a hickey on her neck? Bruises could be created by many different things.

"There's nothing going on, I told you that already."

"Then why are you scared of him?"

Sam said nothing, her breathing exhaling in puffs. Her jaw tensed, her eyes glancing to the ceiling in time for two streams falling from them. Oswald pulled his pocket square from his jacket and handed it to her. She only shook her head, wiping her hand over her face and sighing.

"I'm giving you once more chance," she whispered, trying to keep it together. The tears were flowing freely now. "Where is my guitar?"

No matter how badly he wanted to, Oswald knew how inappropriate it would be to kiss her. Would a hug be alright? Would she even want one after he'd accused her boyfriend of abusing her? Rightfully accused, he feared, but other than a few glances between the two, he had no evidence to support any theory.

"I'll tell you if you allow me one thing," he said, tucking the cloth back into his jacket.

She waited.

"That scarf is so lovely," he complimented and watched her cheeks redden in quick realization. "May I touch it? It looks very soft."

With a huff, she unwrapped the scarf from her neck and shoved it at him. "You can have it and my guitar. I'm done." The side of her neck was spotless in the dim light. But he could've sworn he saw…

She turned to leave but Oswald grabbed her elbow.

"Samantha–"

"If you don't let go of me in three seconds I swear I'll…" The black pools of her eyes threatened, almost dared him. She wiped away her tears once again.

Oswald's hand slid down her arm and he took her hand, laying her scarf in it, curling her fingers around it. "Your guitar is over there." He gestured to the far corner behind her, the neck of the case peeking over the drum set. He watched her stomp to it, open it for a brief moment, then stomp back. She didn't make eye contact as she walked past, but Oswald grabbed her elbow again.

"Just one more thing," he said quickly before she could consider what she'd do. From a plastic cup of writing utensils sitting on top of a podium next to him, he grabbed a red pen. He pulled a black business card belonging to the club from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote his cellphone number on the back. "If for any reason you need something… even if it's a favor to ask or a shoulder to cry on, that is my personal number." He handed her the card but she only looked at it. "Even if you choose to throw it away immediately after you leave here, please take it. And know that… I'm worried." The words didn't necessarily roll of his tongue easily. His pride was bruising before her eyes. "Is a Friday night performance this week alright with you? Say, eight o'clock?"

She hesitated, the seconds lingering thickly, before saying, "This conversation hasn't exactly been a good reason to come back."

"Then I'll double the payment and make you a weekly performer, every Saturday night at eight o'clock." The words blurted out before Oswald had a moment to think. Although he was in charge of keeping the club afloat, the money brought in was ultimately Don Falcone's. How would he feel about such a pay raise after she had only performed at the club once? There was no doubt Zsasz would be paying them a visit very, very soon.

Noah's voice boomed. "Sam, let's _go_!"

_Please, don't leave._ Oswald watched her eyes shift from him to the stage as she thought.

"Fine, Saturday night," she finally decided. "Only if I don't hear about this ever again. There's nothing going on that you need to be concerned about."

_If I see any hint of suspicious activity, don't think I won't kill him._

"I'll see you later then," she huffed. With her scarf in one hand and her guitar in the other, she left Oswald alone in the dark with nothing but his thoughts.

It would be so easy to just steal her away where Oswald would know she was safe. But despite his negative feelings and suspicions toward Noah, she still seemed to love him. Perhaps it was just jealousy toward him that had distorted his perception. Maybe there hadn't been bruises or fear in her eyes. But then why had she cried when he asked about it?

He only hoped she'd keep his card.


	5. Smothered

"It was only a friendly hug," Sam insisted. Her hand fidgeted in the pocket of her jacket, her thumb flicking against the sharp corner of Oswald's business card. She had left her mace at home. She could only imagine what would happen if Noah found it on her. She walked lopsided, her guitar case banging against her thigh.

"We'll talk about this inside," Noah ordered, unlocking the door to their apartment. He flicked on the lights and shouldered off his coat quietly, hanging it over the couch.

Sam followed cautiously, closing the door behind her. She propped her guitar case against the wall. "Babe, I was only thankful for the extra cash. A hug is harmless." She pulled off her purse and jacket, setting them on the couch as well.

He pulled the cash from his coat and slid it in his back pocket. He kicked off his shoes, which was crusted with salt from the icy sidewalk. Shuffling to the kitchen, he grabbed a cold bottle of beer and down half of it in one gulp.

"Talk to me." She held herself, swallowing back tears, anxiety growing quickly.

Noah stomped to her, holding out the bottle. "Drink."

She pushed it away lightly. "No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."

His fingers were in her hair, yanking her head back. As her mouth opened in a wince, a slipped the bottle past her lips, dumping the contents down her throat. She gagged and spat, smacking the bottle away as she choked. The glass broke against the edge of the coffee table, spilling the last of the beer on the carpet.

"Are you cheating on me with _him_?" he growled, his grasp still tight in her hair.

"I'm not!" she cried, trying to pry his fingers from her scalp. "Stop, you're hurting me!"

"I saw the way he looked at you. You're all up on him, acting like some slut. You really thought I wouldn't notice? And you wear a _skirt_ to visit him?" He pulled her to the couch, tripping her over the arm so she landed on her stomach.

"I've worn it before. I thought you liked it."

"And then you disappeared with him for so long?" He gathered her hands behind her back. "Did you have fun sucking him off while I waited patiently for you?"

He propped himself up and dug his knee into her lower back. His palm pushed into the back of her head, smothering her face as she screamed. Her legs flailed as she tried to produce enough leverage to stand. His hand gripped her hair, his fist slamming into the back of her head.

"That was pretty smart of me to tell you to go put makeup on your neck," he chuckled, smearing his grip on her head teasingly. "I told you it was a good idea. We fooled that prick."

Sam's lungs ached as she struggled to breathe, her tears drenching her face. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but fail to fight back. And all she could think of how stupid she was. Why hadn't she told Oswald the truth about everything? She hated how she had treated him. And now that would all he'd think about once she was gone.

_I'm going to die; this is how it goes. This is how you deserve to go._

She involuntarily started gasping, her pressured chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. Her body was on its last resort. A high pitched ringing stabbed through her brain. Her muscles weakened and struggling became nearly impossible. Her vision tunneled and slowly she was floating, unable to grasp time or space. The tunnel collapsed on top of her and unconsciousness was welcoming.

* * *

With a satisfied grunt, Noah released her hair, his knuckles aching from the strain. His fingers searched her throat and found her pulse, as faint as it was. He stood over her and fixed her skirt to cover her legs.

"Don't be indecent," he joked and patted her rear affectionately. "That _is_ a nice color on you though. You should wear it more often." Grabbing her hair one final time, he turned her head to the side. He couldn't have her dying on him.

He sighed and stretched from his fingers to his toes. He didn't truly believe she would cheat on him, especially with some freak show reject like Cobblepot. He was so weak there was no way he could control Sam like Noah could. She needed to be reeled in or else she'd certainly sleep with every one of her fans.

He palmed his back pocket, checking to see that the cash was still there. He couldn't believe she had given up the money so easily, especially in front of Cobblepot after they had just argued about it. He loved seeing the look on his face as she gave up her earnings, however hard she had worked for it. They were both complete idiots. Of course she'd give him the money. She was irresponsible after all and couldn't handle the pressure of taking care of money.

Bending down, he picked up the larger pieces of the broken bottle, pressing the beer into the carpet to help it absorb.

A black card lay in the puddle, the material moist and fragile. It read _The Iceberg Lounge_ in blue cursive print with the address and main phone number underneath it. He turned it over. The penmanship was draining into the alcohol but he could distinctly see the first few digits of a phone number.

His certainty was now growing thin. She hadn't cheated, right? She wouldn't dare cheat on him with that birdy little bitch in clown clothes, would she?

He reared back and spat on Sam's face.


	6. Fireball

Jim Gordon woke with a frustrated grunt, his cellphone vibrating on the bedside table near his head. His pillow was too soft, the blankets too warm, his body too comfortable for the day to be starting already. But the phone continued to jump about the table, the captain's name flashing on the outer screen. He propped himself on his elbow, stretched, then flipped open his phone.

"Go ahead, Cap," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice down. But Lee stirred beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her cheek on his bare back.

"Jim, sorry to call so early," Captain Essen said, a hint of urgency in her voice, "but a stiff was found about a half hour ago by a uniform on her patrol. I need you to get down to the docks ASAP, it's going to start snowing again soon. I'll be calling Bullock after this. Sorry, everyone else is swamped."

"You know Harvey isn't going to want to be up at," Jim checked the time on his phone and groaned, "geez, five in the morning." He and Lee had had a spectacularly restless night, which he was now starting to feel in his muscles. "We usually don't have shifts before the sun rises."

"I'll give both of you double overtime, but I need you there. Forensics is already on their way."

The promise of extra pay didn't sway the sleepy headache growing in between his eyes. "Alright, I'll be there in an hour." He flipped his phone shut, resting the cool plastic on his forehead. "Lee, go back to sleep." His hand traced the length of her forearm soothingly.

"Only if I get a kiss first," she purred.

Jim stood, arching his back until he felt the air pop from his joints. He'd gone into work with less sleep before but that fact didn't make it any easier. With shaky shoulders, he leaned over his happily naked girlfriend and kissed her tenderly. Her hands cupped his face weakly.

"I'll see you later," he whispered and kissed her again before walking to the bathroom to start his morning routine: shower, brush teeth, comb hair, dry, dress, secure his weapon and out the door within thirty minutes.

He chased the sunrise on his way to the docks, stopping for a cup of coffee, and making it to the scene with two minutes to spare. He parked near the coroner's van and, with his steaming cup firm in his gloved hand, sauntered to where they were gathered. The wind's bite stung his face. As he walked closer, he could see the pink blouse of a woman lying near the edge of the water. Ed Nygma stood over her, writing in his small notebook. A fellow forensic investigator was nearby, taking photos of blood spatter labeled with a folded paper of the number four.

"Good morning, Detective," Ed smiled, unusually chipper for the early hour. Wool earmuffs hugged his head. He stood over the stiff body that was tucked into the fetal position, her breasts and stomach squeezed into a blouse a few sizes too small. Blood caked her neck and shoulders. Her legs were folded neatly against her chest, one pant leg ripped at the knee. The button and zipper on the pants themselves were undone. Her skin, once dark and probably very sensual, was now clouded and blue. Black hair shrouded her face, a red hairclip tangled in its frozen web.

"Morning, Ed." Jim took a sip of his drink, burning his tongue. "Who do we have here?"

"Jane Doe, still pretty fresh," Ed commented, not taking his eyes off his notes. "Estimated time of death seems to be around two o'clock. The spatter originates down there." With his pen, he pointed to an alleyway between two warehouses where labels three, two and one were on the ground. "No sign of a weapon, but from the cut I'd guess something small with a sharp edge, possibly switchblade or razor."

Jim squatted down closer to the body. The blood had drenched her skin and blouse, the area too mangled to see the actual wound. Scuffs bloodied her palms and knees.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Ed teased, flashing one of his famous toothy grins.

"And what exactly are we thinking?" Jim took another sip, the burn less painful.

"I mean, of course she'd need to be cleaned and prepped, but don't you think these wounds are consistent with a few other bodies that's popped up recently?"

Jim's mouth twisted in doubt. "Maybe. I'll need to see the final report before we jump to any conclusions." Leaning farther down, he noticed the side of her neck was bruised. "Let me know if you find anything else," Jim grumbled sleepily, finishing his coffee. "Where's the officer who discovered the body?"

Once again, with his pen, Ed pointed to a uniformed woman smoking at her car behind the yellow tape. When she noticed Jim approaching her, she stomped out her cigarette.

"Officer Pierce, sir," she introduced, shaking his hand.

"Nice to meet you," Jim said, surprised by her friendliness. "Can you tell me what happened this morning?"

"Yes, sir. I was just doing my normal morning route when I saw the woman lying on her side by the water, around four thirty. I got out to see if she was alright, but she was stiff. So, I called it in."

"And you saw nothing suspicious? No one lingering around? No weapon of any kind?"

Pierce shook her head. "The only thing I saw was her, sorry."

Harvey groaned exaggeratedly behind Jim. "So, basically, I woke up this early for nothing!"

"Morning, Harvey." Jim flashed a strained grin in his direction. "Glad you could join us." He thanked the officer, dismissing her.

"Don't start, Jim." He adjusted his sunglasses. "I'm working off a major Fireball hangover and I don't need your attitude. So, please, for God's sake, talk quietly."

Jim chuckled softly at the ridiculous display. Harvey wasn't always the straightest cop but at least he was never boring.

"I'm here, so you might as well tell me why." Harvey took a sip of his own coffee cup, which he no doubt spiked with more Fireball to ease the pain between his eyes.

"African-American Jane Doe, late twenties, with obvious signs of foul play. She has cuts on her palms and knees and there's a trail of blood so we can only assume she tried to crawl away from her attacker. There seemed to be a gash around her shoulder and neck area, but we won't be certain until Dr. Thompkins can examine her."

"An awful lot of dead girls with similar gashes seem to be showing up lately. What is this, number four?"

"Just let Lee take a look first."


End file.
